


sleeper

by Ser_Renity



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Mind Control, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, POV Second Person, Widowmaker POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-02
Updated: 2016-07-02
Packaged: 2018-07-19 14:54:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7366117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ser_Renity/pseuds/Ser_Renity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tracer had never been afraid of the Widowmaker.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sleeper

**Author's Note:**

> Not the most original or detailed of Widowtracer fics I bet and I am a little rusty on the canon and also haven't even played the game yet. Amazing, I know!
> 
> But I love these two. Love their potential and design. So yep, there I went with the fic writing.
> 
> The song is "Que reste-t-il de nos amours", I listened to the version by Awa Ly.

* * *

 

 

Tracer had never been afraid of the Widowmaker. There was a difference, though, between that and Lena being afraid for you- Amélie. It sounded too dramatic for you not to laugh in the silence between kills, that small memory that the shock on her pretty face stirred in you.

  
There was something before this, of course there was; before the spider and its lethal bite, before you felt nothing at all except for the moment your bullet hit its target. The past was vile.

 

Seeing Tracer was like a slap to the face and you didn’t know why, you didn’t understand why the shock and sorrow on her face mattered. She was just a kid, a silly agent girl who was trying so very hard to get in your way.

  
You were the Widowmaker. You would never miss a shot.

 

* * *

 

 

In your dreams you saw a man sometimes, his face blurry and his laughter nothing but a crackle of static. He was important, somehow, but he spoke to a version of you that no longer had a place in your heart. You were cold; your skin and your mind and everything that counted.

  
“Feelin’ blue,” you laughed under your breath once as you took apart your favorite rifle, inspecting all its parts to prepare for your next mission. There were words in your head sometimes, songs from those days so long past that you hardly remembered.

They stuck to you as if you were nothing but an ancient beast in a tar pit.

  
“Que reste-t-il de nos amours? Que reste-t-il de ces beaux jours?” you sang quietly and wiped the gunshot residue off your clothes, “Une photo, vieille photo de ma jeunesse...”

 

* * *

 

 

They took you when you were more than a child but less than a woman who knew what to do with her life- not everything went according to plan but it went, somehow. Days and years passed.

  
You married, happily, helped raise an organization from the dust of a war-ridden world.

  
“You don’t know what you got until it’s gone,” was something your husband loved to say, “That’s what Overwatch is going to be- a chance for us to stop this world from losing so much more.”

  
You loved him enough to let that unwavering conviction into your heart and accept it- you were the skeptic, he was the believer. One had to make up for the other.

  
Until one day your enemies decided to disrupt the balance of your ambition.

  
They took from you all you had to give and made you take Gerard’s life, too- as an afterthought, maybe, because suddenly you were more valuable than he had ever been.

  
Those were thoughts of Amélie though, not Widowmaker. Widowmaker did not feel anything, not with her heart beating so slowly a warmer person would have feared it would stop.

  
It took you so long to get through this mess, the endless hours of torture and training and torture again. They fried your brain, let your organs collapse and wormed their ideas into your head like wires. A spider, they called you, a weapon.

  
“Weapon” began to sound so much better than “victim”. You had read those thrillers before, with brave protagonists surviving anything the bad men threw at them. Enduring torture. Escaping the pain.

  
But Amélie, the dancer, the artist, never learned how to be like that. There was no bravery in their prisons and no hope before they broke your head once and for all. You screamed and they listened intently for the second you shifted into a different mind.

  
You did, in the end.

 

* * *

 

 

When Tracer first met you, up on the roofs above a city that was nothing but the location of your next kill, she did not recognize you.

  
How could she? The you she knew was dead and gone, or so you liked to think as the Talon agents spoke of the weak-willed woman you had been. The one who screamed and didn’t fight, the one who cried with her face scrunched up in agony.

  
Tracer fought you and lost, cried out to you with a voice so desperate you didn’t know who to be as you answered her. A snarky reply on your lips was all you left her, a swift kick in the gut.

 

* * *

 

 

That night you dreamed of Lena Oxton.

  
Amélie Lacroix had met her briefly, long before you saw her as Widowmaker. Back then her past as a pilot had not yet left her head, those silly little dreams of being the best in the world, the fastest girl up there above the clouds. How foolish, you thought with a smile splitting your face in two, this silly little pilot.

  
“You can call me Amélie, chérie,” you said to her before Talon ripped you out of this world, “No need to be that formal. We all share a passion for the same goal.”

  
Lena blushed and stammered out a reply- but she agreed, too, even though they only met each other a few more times. It was enough. You liked her enthusiasm and that earnest conviction- at least until it was you who had to beat it out of her skull.

 

* * *

 

 

Tracer and you clashed a few more times. A teasing comment was followed by a swift dance around each other, a dash away from a crime scene. You didn’t always succeed and she didn’t always lose- you were equals on the battlefield and the Widowmaker loved it, enjoyed every second that brought you closer to the next thrill. Spiders felt so much more than your parents had said they did- excitement, joy, pure bliss when your bullets smashed the skull, fractured the bone.

 

* * *

 

 

Then, one day, a bullet smashed into your rib cage, caved the flesh and the spongy lungs beneath. The world tilted and tumbled down to the ground.

  
You were cold, out there in the vast expanse of space. Suffocating. Every breath hurt, every sound was amplified by a million until the cacophony rang in your ears.

  
“Widowmaker?” you heard and it was Tracer who called out to you, her voice shaking, “Widowmaker?”

  
You smiled at the nothing above that was her, felt the bullet lodged in your chest. It had been meant for her this time and you knew there was no way you could let it land.

  
“Chérie,” you mumbled and lifted up a hand towards the sky, “I told you not to be so formal with me.”

  
Tracer cried, bless her foolish soul, cried with the other assassin still around and her fingers clenched around your wrist as if she never wanted to let you go.

  
“Amélie,” she said and the name was a memento itself, “Amélie. That’s your name.”

  
And it was. It had been, for a while.

  
The Widowmaker closed her eyes.

 

* * *

 

 

“You know what I always say,” Mercy told you as you woke up in a hospital bed, “ _Helden sterben nicht._ ”

  
You remembered her and the way she had held your hand clumsily as you taught her how to dance. For her future wife, she said with a wink. Now the rocket lady was at her side, watchful like a hawk but not without kindness. Amélie wanted them to be happier than anyone else in the world. Widowmaker was there, too, watching quietly.

 

* * *

 

 

And that was the true terror of it all- that there were not really two of you. It was one person, one and the same, and that would never change again.

  
Lena didn’t understand what you meant right away.

  
“Is this a split personality kinda deal?” she asked and seemed ready to get Mercy for another psychological evaluation, “We can work with that-”

  
“It’s not that.”

  
She listened to you, for hours and hours on end while the conditioning was reversed by their kindest healer. Of course they were wary, of course they doubted and locked the doors on you.

  
You stayed, anyway, for that foolish woman who looked at you with a smile even after you told her about your husband’s death. Never taking advantage, either; Lena loved you and you knew that but she never forced you to acknowledge it.

 

* * *

 

 

It took years for you to believe it was over, to wake up and not believe another step would be the end of your heart.

  
Lena kissed you on a New Year’s Eve nearly a decade later, blushed just as bright as she always had.

  
You lifted a hand to touch your blue fingers to your purple lips, feeling the warmth.

  
“Well then,” you said and smiled, “Let’s give this new thing a try then, shall we?”

 

* * *

 


End file.
